A wordless sound of awe escaped Matrinka, who clearly preferred listening to speaking in this situation.
The enormity of the potential elfin lifespan made it impossible for Tae to estimate. Assuming three hundred years, Tem’aree’ay would compare to a sixty-year-old human; but, given Captain’s span, she would not yet be three. “Can you tell by the speed of maturity when an elf will likely . . . pass on his or her soul?”
Tem’aree’ay’s brow furrowed. She obviously had never considered such a thing. “I . . . don’t think so. We don’t age in a certain progression, the way humans do. I mean, our hair sometimes flecks gray over time, but not so predictably as humans. It’s not uncommon for an elf to have white hair from birth. Mostly, we judge age from eyes, and we don’t count years per se. We do defer to the elders for positions on Council, but that only applies to our most aged. Not all elves survive millennia to take those seats.”
The telling-age-from-eyes issue caught Tae’s curiosity, but he did not delve. It would only divert him from the necessary information and make Tem’aree’ay suspicious. He did not need that knowledge to spy or to assist with Ivana. Wishing to keep the elf talking, he tried to make the conversation pertinent. “How long is an elf a child? Is it possible Ivana’s . . . slowness . . . is related to the more gradual development of elves?”
“I’ve considered that.” Tem’aree’ay went as serious as any human. “It might account for some of her physical awkwardness, assuming she got the worst of both parents when it comes to coordination.” A hand flew to her lips, as if worried she had said something offensive. “By that, I mean the lengthier development of elves together with the . . . less fluid movement of humans.”
I don’t think I’ve even been called a clod more sweetly. Tae nodded encouragement.
But Tem’aree’ay only looked back, apparently having lost the thread of her intended point.
Tae reminded her. “Differences in human and elfin development might account for physical awkwardness.” When a light did not flash in her sapphire eyes, Tae continued. “But not for intelligence?”
Nudged back to her previous explanation, Tem’aree’ay continued as if she had never stopped. “Elves start ‘talking’ about the same actual age as humans. Khohlar comes first. It’s filled with pictures and concepts, and it only requires sending rudimentary thoughts. An elfin child radiates the basics: hunger, thirst, joy, discomfort.”
The image flashed Tae back to an earlier point in the conversation, a question that never got answered. “Ivana can’t use khohlar.” This time, Tae did not ask. “She has never spoken to you that way.”
Tem’aree’ay replied so softly, it took Tae a moment to decipher what she said. “It’s worse.”
Worse? Even after he figured it out, Tae did not know what to make of it. “Worse how?”
“In the last few days, I’ve come to wonder if Ivana can even receive khohlar.”
Tae nodded, then stopped as full understanding overcame him. “How can that be? Even humans hear khohlar. And we have little understanding of the concept and no ability to use it ourselves.”
“Worse,” Matrinka repeated, reminding Tae of Tem’aree’ay’s description. “I can see why it might take someone eighteen years, or longer, to recognize such a unique problem.” She clearly was trying to placate Tem’aree’ay, who had to feel like a failure as a mother.
Now, Tae appreciated Matrinka’s presence. She could deal with the emotional issues while he pursued the facts. “What could cause such a thing?”
All eyes went to Tae, including Imorelda’s. Tae got the sudden feeling he had asked the stupidest question in the history of the universe.
*Even cats can hear it, you moron.*
Tem’aree’ay explained more patiently, “Animals respond to khohlar, even ones who don’t hear sounds. How can we know the cause when it’s never happened before?”
Matrinka squirmed into a more comfortable position. “Are you sure about Ivana?”
“It’s not difficult to test.”
Attempting to redeem his intelligence, Tae guessed, “Just give her the same simple commands she already follows but deliver then as khohlar.”
Tem’aree’ay made a gesture toward Tae to indicate the truth of what he said, then added, “The hardest part was thinking of the possibility. Every living thing can hear khohlar. Every living thing . . . except my daughter.”
Tae tried to fathom what could cause such a defect but realized he could not even explain why he and Matrinka could communicate with Mior and Imorelda. Developing an understanding of mental languages was the exact reason they had come to Tem’aree’ay in the first place.
Tem’aree’ay remained stuck on maternal concerns. “It never occurred to me to worry about such a thing. She’s the only hybrid in the world, so it didn’t bother me when her development lagged more than a year behind Marisole’s. I mean, elves don’t come of age until they’re about a century old. It wasn’t until I saw a human imbecile that I realized how much Ivana resembled him. She seems less an amalgam of human and elf than a simpleton.”
Matrinka cringed. She found it difficult to talk about anyone’s deficiencies, no matter the purpose. “Even if she’s . . . she’s . . . a slow thinker, that might explain why she can’t send khohlar. But she’s obviously smarter than most animals, and you said even they could hear it.”
“Yes.”
Tae knew from raising Subikahn, and from watching other children develop, that babies surrounded by words became more gifted and earlier speakers. From the moment of birth, most elves experienced khohlar flying at them from every direction. Ivana had heard some from her mother but not the immersion she would have gotten had she been raised among elves. Yet, Tae realized, that should not matter. Humans grew up with no exposure to khohlar, and they had no trouble hearing it. Plagued with questions, Tae asked, “Tem’aree’ay, remember I said the alsona and Kjempemagiska had a mental language as well as a spoken one?”
The elf nodded. “Of course, I remember.”
“During the war, did you hear them using it?”
“No.” Tem’aree’ay added, “But I was never actually in the battle. I was on the roof.”
Tae had not heard them from his sickbed, either; but walls appeared to block alsona mindspeak, just as they did his connection with Imorelda. When perched on the open windowsill, Imorelda had managed to relay some of their calls to him. “There’s a limit to how far they carry, but I think you should have heard them from the rooftop.”
Tem’aree’ay sprang to her feet, and her mouth flew open. “What are you saying? That I’m deficient at hearing unspoken languages, and I’ve passed that problem to my daughter?”
As Tae had intended nothing offensive, her reaction took him by surprise. “Not at all. As far as I know, I’m the only human who can hear the enemy’s mind-language.”
*You can’t hear them, either.* Imorelda reminded testily. *You need me.*
*In more ways than you know, my pet,* Tae sent back. *But I’m still trying to keep our connection to you a secret.* For now, he also wanted to protect Matrinka’s ability.
Matrinka added, “I think Tae’s trying to say that humanlike creatures with mental forms of communication may not match up with elfin khohlar.”
Tem’aree’ay sank back to her haunches. “But humans can hear khohlar. Why wouldn’t elves be able to hear . . . ?” She trailed off.
Tae realized they needed a simpler term for “humanlike creatures’ mental form of communication.” “For ease, let’s call the enemies’ spoken language ‘Alsonese’ and their mental language ‘Kjempese.’ I’m sure they have other names for it, but until we know, this will have to do.” He addressed the actual question with a shrug. “The whole point of coming here was to find a common basis for unspoken languages. I think we’re discovering there may not be one.”
Tem’aree’ay put the de
tails together. “Anyone can hear khohlar, but only elves can send it. With Kjempese, however, our enemies are the only ones who can send it or hear it. The exceptions to that rule being you, who can hear both, and Ivana who can’t hear khohlar.”
The elf had summarized the situation well, except for two obvious gaps. “Under certain circumstances, I can also send Kjempese, but I can’t do khohlar. And we don’t know whether or not Ivana can hear or send Kjempese.”
Matrinka looked back and forth between them but added nothing.
The concepts worked easier for Outworlders, like elves and Kjempemagiska, because they had experience with magic and mental languages. For Tae, it seemed like a fourth dimension, the greatest challenge to his natural ability with languages. “Does this all make sense in the context of unspoken languages?”
Tem’aree’ay made a noncommittal gesture and reminded him, “Elves don’t generally analyze things in this kind of detail.” Clearly, she recognized the value of this particular knowledge to Ivana, and her time among humans had taught her to organize some bits of information logically. “The gods also have a mental language. It’s impossible not to hear it if they want you to, and they can send it to as few or as many people as they choose.”
Tem’aree’ay continued, “Demons are the physical embodiment of magic, and I’ve heard they literally penetrate minds. That would allow them to read, or even tamper with, thought and memory as well as communicate.” She added carefully, “The gods can probably do that, too. It’s possible the Cardinal Wizards had that power as well.”
As Tem’aree’ay considered everything she had heard about various forms of mental communication, Tae did not interrupt. One bit of information seemed to jog the next.
“Those rare items imbued with significant chaos can be considered a type of demon as they possess a physical form that contains permanent magic. Legends abound about humans and Outworlders who could communicate with weapons, dwellings, or gemstones, often to their detriment. The one modern example is the Pica Stone. Only the heirs to Béarn’s throne who have been tested know how it works, and the few not driven mad by it aren’t talking. Clearly, the stone communicates with them in some manner that no one else can hear.”
Tae looked at Matrinka. She had taken the tests, failed, yet somehow managed to maintain her sanity.
Matrinka’s nostrils flared, but she added nothing. Clearly, she did not wish to talk about it with Tem’aree’ay or with him. Tae did not press. He had seen the various insanities inflicted on many of her cousins and siblings and refused to disrupt whatever internal defense mechanisms kept her sane.
Tae waited until he felt sure Tem’aree’ay had finished, but not long enough for Matrinka to feel as if she had to fill the subsequent silence with information about her experience with the Pica. “So, there definitely are several different forms of mind-communication.”
Tem’aree’ay tented her inhumanly long fingers. “Yes. But until this week I thought they all had one thing in common: any living thing could hear them. Now, I know that’s not true.”
Suddenly, the intensity of Tem’aree’ay’s previous focus and her new concern for her daughter made sense. Though disconcerted by the mere idea, Tae knew he had to help Ivana. Doing so might give him the understanding he needed to hone the bond with Imorelda, grant him the tools he wanted to unravel the Kjempemagiska’s language, and even help a previously hopeless princess. “When can I start working with Ivana?”
Tem’aree’ay’s nearly ubiquitous grin grew radiant.
The only way to become the best at something is to live it from sunup to sundown and into your dreams. Because every moment you’re eating, sleeping, or engaging in unnecessary conversation or entertainment, you’re missing a chance to improve your skills. And time is one thing you can never get back.
—Calistin Ra-khirsson
THE BLEAK, stone walls of his prison drove Saviar to a boredom deeper than he could ever remember. He wore himself to exhaustion with svergelse, though, without a sword, it seemed to lack all point and meaning. If not for the magical windows, he would have lost all track of time. Those gave him a view of the world outside his prison, sunup and sundown passing in perfect order, though it felt more like weeks than days.
On the second day, another tasteless bowl of roots poked through the wall at about head height. It penetrated the stone easily, without any evidence of physical might or violence. Saviar had taken hold of it, and the gourd that followed, and they had slid into his hands. Behind them they left no defect or opening, no hole that might serve as a weakness to aid escape, not even a slit through which he could pass back the empty dishes. To him, the wall seemed as solid as any other, and the dishes came through in some magical fashion he could not fathom.
By the third day, he learned that if he pushed his dish against the wall, near the spot it had appeared and soon after he finished with its contents, it disappeared back the way it had come. The first set, however, had lost whatever property allowed it to pass through walls. He managed to get the second set back to the other side as well, though it took comparatively more force. He experimented with various parts of the wall; and, while it did not seem he had to find the exact same place the bowls and gourds had entered, they would not go through just anywhere, either. Apparently, the magic had a limited timespan and only worked near its source.
Other than the exchange of the dishes and gourds, Saviar had no interaction with his captors. During the day, he performed svergelse, imagining the weight of swords clutched in his fists. When he lay down, he considered speeches and words that might regain him the goodwill of the Mages of Myrcidë, if not that of Chymmerlee herself. The aftereffects of whatever magic had caused his spasms gradually faded until it mingled with the normal soreness that came from honing muscles with work. At times, Saviar simply stared out the window, watching rain pounding against stone and bowing the weeds, then rolling gaily down the mountainsides and off the stalks and leaves. He hummed songs to the rhythm of its silent falling.
Deep into the fourth night of his imprisonment, a sound awakened Saviar. He sat up, glancing around the room, instinctively seeking an enemy. Darkness filled the windowless half of his cell, and moonlight streaming in from the two adjacent sides with windows defined the shadows of his first bowl and gourd. He saw no movement, sensed no presence, and could no longer hear any noise. In the past, when he trod heavily or banged his dish against the floor, the enclosed room magnified the sounds, echoing them from the walls and ceiling. Nothing came from the outside. Surely, he must have made the sound that awakened him, a snore or a rustle of clothing or blanket. Saviar closed his eyes.
A hiss touched his hearing, and his eyes opened again. This time, he was not asleep, nor had he made any noise. Rising to a wary crouch, he studied the cell a second time, seeing nothing out of place. Still, the noise recurred, an airy sound, followed by a whirring foxlike call. Saviar recognized it instantly. Subikahn? He sprang to his feet.
Something flickered past one of the windows, a shadow in deeper darkness. Cautiously, Saviar headed toward it. As he did so, something sharp and metallic thrust through it, the bare tip of a sword. Subikahn’s voice followed, through that tiny disruption. “Saviar, can you hear me?”
Saviar got as close to the sword tip as he dared, then whispered. “Subi?”
“Who else?”
“How did you find me?”
“It’s not hard to follow someone who’s following a bunch of noisy, overdressed men on white horses.”
Saviar silently berated his incaution. The knights had no reputation to defend in this regard, but competent Renshai did not allow swordsmen to sneak around them unseen and unheard. “You followed me the whole way?”
“Someone had to.”
Given his predicament, Saviar could scarcely deny it. He had to know. “How are you stabbing solid glass without breaking it?”
Subikahn’s head f
inally appeared above the level of the window, showing a mop of black hair, an ear and cheek that blended into the night, and a single eye. The rest of his features remained safely below sight. “Don’t you recognize your own weapon?”
Motfrabelonning. It’s magical. Saviar reached for the tip, touching the familiar cold, oiled steel. “Push through the hilt.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Subikahn’s face disappeared, but the voice remained, a faint and careful whisper. “Because I don’t want to earn the nickname ‘No-Fingers’ Taesson.”
Saviar understood his twin’s caution. If Subikahn did offer the hilt, Saviar could not resist pulling it through the window. Holding the sharpened blade at an angle Saviar could not see, Subikahn might well lose some digits in the transfer. “Just hold it on your palms. I’ll be careful.”
Even the tip all but disappeared. “What will you do with it if I give it to you?”
The question seemed beyond stupid. “Kill myself. What do you think I’d do with it? I’d practice svergelse, of course.”
“Svergelse?” Subikahn sounded clearly surprised by an answer that seemed obvious to Saviar.
“Of course.”
Subikahn’s entire face appeared this time. “Wouldn’t you use it to escape?”
“Eventually.”
Silence followed, at least from Subikahn. The tip of the sword remained, and Saviar could hear the irregular chirp of night insects through the gap.
Saviar explained. “After I’ve talked things through with the mages, I’ll escape.”
“After.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think there’s much chance they’ll talk to you while you’re holding a sword?”
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